


For me your intoxication

by bisexualcyborg



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Begging, Coming Untouched, Crossover, Crying, Dirty Talk, F/M, Femdom, Humiliation, Object Insertion, Riding Crops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 20:52:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4034176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisexualcyborg/pseuds/bisexualcyborg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian pays a visit to Irene Adler.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For me your intoxication

**Author's Note:**

> This all started because of a conversation with [Freddie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/221brosiewilde/pseuds/221brosiewilde). You can thank them for this, and for the beta, of course.

Dorian double-checked the heavy ivory calling card in his hand. Yes, this was it. Fancy house, and in a fancy neighbourhood; he’d have to see whether there was anything on sale here.

He checked his watch – he had at least two hours, good – and rang the bell decisively. A few seconds later, the door opened, revealing a pretty ginger woman in a white dress. 

“Sir?”

Dorian extended a hand, presenting her with his best smile and his own calling card.

“Dorian Gray. Miss Adler should be expecting me.”

The woman took his card and stepped out of the way, gesturing him in.

“Mr. Gray, do come in. I’ll tell Miss Adler that you’re here.”

She led him into a beautifully furnished parlour that looked suspiciously like a waiting room, complete with magazines, and disappeared through the opposite door. 

Dorian didn’t take a seat; instead, he walked around the parlour, examining the richly upholstered chairs and the masterfully executed paintings. He was attentively admiring an erotic gravure featuring a woman in Victorian dress getting spanked by her maid over the back of a settee, when the click of high heels on the parquet made him turn his head.

Irene Adler stood in the door opening, looking gorgeous in a black silk dress and shocking red lipstick. She wore her hair differently than at the restaurant; coiled and pinned up around her head, instead of the strict yet elegant bun she had sported two days ago. 

“One of my favourites,” she said with a smile as she walked towards him. “Do you like it?”

It took Dorian a moment before he realised she was talking about the gravure. 

He nodded, letting his eyes flit obviously, but not insistently, over her face, her neck, her bust, her legs, then back up.

“Like all beautiful things, I do.”

“You have excellent taste, Mr Gray.” She was standing next to him now. Despite her five-inch stiletto heels, she was almost half a head shorter than him, and yet Dorian felt slightly intimated. Perhaps it was her stare; Dorian had always had a thing for people with very intense eyes.

Dorian gestured to the room around them. “Coming from you, that’s very high praise.”

Irene raised an eyebrow and her lips quirked. “I’m sure I could bestow many more compliments on you, if that’s what you’re into.”

Oh, but she was delightful. Dorian looked at her through his eyelashes. 

“It depends on the situation.”

“What about now, then?”

“That,” Dorian said, “depends on what you have to offer.”

She put a hand on the small of his back, making him shiver. “I could show you.”

She led him into a large room with high windows, the light spilling on the mahogany parquet and the off-white walls. There was a plush couch in one corner, a bench in another, and various hooks and contraptions hanging from the ceiling and adorning the walls. 

“So,” Irene asked, her hand still on Dorian’s back, “compliments?”

Dorian smiled down at her. “Something else entirely, perhaps. If that’s what you’re looking for, of course.”

Irene’s grin was positively feral. “Making a pretty boy like you scream and beg for me? That is absolutely what I’m looking for.”

“Oh,” Dorian drawled, “but it’s not that easy to make me scream or beg.”

“Believe me,” Irene said, and her nails dug lightly in Dorian’s back through the thin fabric of his shirt, “you’re far from the first person to tell me that. And I have yet to fail to prove them wrong.”

Dorian bowed his head. “I’m looking forward to that, then.”

Irene took her hand off his back and turned to face him. “On your knees.”

Dorian knelt. He could have pushed a bit, of course, played the relucant part, but sometimes he liked giving in completely. And Irene was someone he wanted to give in to. 

There was the clicking of her heels behind him as Irene walked across the room, the sliding of a door – wardrobe, possibly? – and then her heels again as she walked back to him. Her dress rustled and something tapped against the wooden floor – had she set something down? If so, what was it?

“Anything you don’t want me to do to you?” Irene asked.

“I have yet to discover my limits,” Dorian answered, unable to hide the hint of pride in his voice.

“Don’t be so arrogant.” The tip of Irene’s shoe prodded him in the buttocks. “If at any time, you want me to stop what I’m doing, just say ‘enough’. And you may call me Miss, Miss Adler, or Mistress. Understood?”

“Yes, Mistress.” The word rolled off Dorian's tongue, sibilant and delicious.

“Clothes off,” she said.

Dorian unbuttoned his shirt with nimble fingers, head still bowed, and let it slip over his shoulders. His trousers were trickier – Dorian knew the game: she hadn’t said he could stand up to undress, so he didn’t. He had to awkwardly wiggle them over his hips and under his knees, reaching back to pull them over his feet.

“Not so elegant anymore, are we, Mr Gray?” Irene’s voice was dry and mocking. She came to stand in front of him, and Dorian swallowed.

“Let’s start with the riding crop.” It was gorgeous, black leather with a thick, braided handle and a thin double tongue. Irene smacked it softly against her left palm; the sound made Dorian’s cock stir. 

Irene noticed, of course. “Dirty boy.” She kicked him gently in the ribs. “Down.”

Dorian went down, forehead to the floor, arse up in the air. So undignified, and so incredibly arousing. 

“So obedient," said Irene’s voice above him. “Desperate little slut.”

The crop whistled in the air and left a stripe of fire on Dorian’s shoulderblade. Dorian clenched his teeth and his fingers twitched against the wooden floor.

“Aren’t you?” Irene asked.

“Yes, Mistress,” Dorian moaned into the floor. 

The crop struck again, on his side, this time. The pain was enchanting, delectable; it made Dorian’s every nerve sing with sensation.

“You like that, don’t you?” Irene hit him again. “You like the pain, you like being facedown on the floor while I do with you as I please.”

“Yes, Mistress!” Dorian’s answer turned into a cry halfway through, when the crop bit into his arse.

Irene trailed the crop over his spine, her voice low and luxurious. “Let’s see how long I can make you like it.”

The crop hit again, and again, and again, lightning-quick and unrelenting, making Dorian’s entire back feel like it was on fire. He stayed silent, at first, but when she started layering hits on top of one another, he couldn’t keep his moans quiet.

And then there was a sharp pressure at the top on his spine, right between his shoulderblades, and Dorian breathed a delighted ”Oh” when he realised she had planted her stiletto-clad foot onto his back. He turned his head sideways, cheek smushed against the parquet, to allow her to push him even further down.

Dorian was momentarily relieved when the crop bypassed his back in favour of his arse. He liked it better that way; the fat made it less painful, the nerves more pleasurable. His cock was drooling pre-come onto the floor. 

But when Irene hit the sensitive skin at the very top of his thighs, he cried out. He was pretty sure he heard her cluck her tongue in triumph, and then she hit that spot again, and again, and again, and Dorian was shouting – screaming, even, if he was fully honest with himself. There was something wet on his cheekbones and he tasted salt on his lips and – was he crying?

He was. Now that was new. He was almost elated with the discovery – it had been so long since someone had succeeded in making him cry – and he would have laughed with delight if he hadn’t been too busy screaming.

“Told you I would make you scream,” Irene said. “And now for the begging.”

The pressure on Dorian’s back relented for a moment and he twisted his neck to see what Irene was doing. She knelt, one knee on the floor next to his head, the other digging into his back, pinning him down.

Why was she changing positions? What was she planning? 

Irene’s hand brushed against his foot as she reached for whatever she had put down on the floor earlier, and Dorian heard a bottle being uncapped – lube, then. And then something blunt and slick was pressing against his arsehole, something soft yet unyielding like – like leather. The riding crop. Irene was going to fuck him with the handle of the riding crop. 

Something fluttered in Dorian’s lower stomach, sending a jolt of pleasure to his cock. Irene was astonishing; it wasn’t often someone managed to surprise him, but God, was he surprised right now - in the best, most toe-curlingly hot way possible. 

He moaned, low and drawn-out, and pushed his arse backwards onto the crop.

Irene slapped his arsecheek, hard. “Don’t. You’ll get it when I give it to you.”

“Please,” Dorian whined, all pride thrown to the wind. If begging was what it took to make her _fuck him with a riding crop_ , he would beg. “Please, Mistress.”

“Please what?”

Well, if he was playing the desperate sub, he could at least go all the way. “Please fuck me, please, Mistress, _please_.”

“I knew I’d like you begging.”

She pushed the handle in slowly, very slowly, giving Dorian the chance to relax and get used to the pressure bit by bit. It wasn’t very thick, but without preparation, he was grateful for her gentleness. This way, it was the perfect stretch-and-burn without actually being painful. 

Irene changed the angle a fraction and the smooth leather dragged against Dorian’s prostate. Dorian screamed. Irene pulled out almost entirely, then pushed in again. It felt glorious - the leather was sinfully luxurious, but the fact that this was a riding crop, an object emphatically not destined for this purpose, felt filthy and humiliating in a way that made Dorian’s head spin with arousal. With every thrust, Irene hit his prostate, making stars explode behind Dorian’s eyelids. 

Soon, his cries turned into ragged whimpers. He was so unbelievably turned on that his vision was blurry with tears, and he found he couldn’t quite remember how to close his mouth.

“Can you come like this?” Irene asked.

“I – uh! – I may, yes, I’ve done it befo- oh! -ore,” Dorian answered between gasps.

“You’ll do it again.” 

Dorian was close, so close he could taste it. His blood was rushing in his ears and his legs were trembling underneath him, and then Irene twisted the crop inside him and the world exploded in a million sharp points of sensation.

His hips bucked uncontrollably as he clawed at the floor. It seemed to go on forever. And then, finally, he melted, feeling like he was floating in a haze of pleasure. He rested his head on his folded arms and breathed heavily, barely noticing when Irene pulled the crop out of him and sat down next to him.

She caressed his hair. “How are you feeling?”

“Marvellous.”

Irene kept petting his hair until his breathing evened out. Then, she put a hand on his shoulder.

“Come on, let’s get you patched up.” 

Dorian look up at her, surprised. “Don’t you want me to give you an orgasm?”

Irene shook her head. “No, I don’t. It’s nothing personal, but – “

Dorian interrupted her. “There’s no explanation needed. And I really don’t need to be patched up.”

Irene tutted. “No arguments, Mr Gray. I broke the skin, and I am taking care of that.”

Dorian almost started to protest again, but then he realised he was probably saying too much. Compliant, he stood up, still a bit unstable on his legs, and let himself be led towards the couch.

“Lie down on your front,” Irene told him. “I’ll go get the antiseptic and the bandages.”

Dorian obeyed. Irene, who had come back with a first aid kit, sat down next to him.

“This will sting a bit,” she said, and Dorian did indeed hiss when the antiseptic-soaked cotton pad touched his broken skin.

Irene was meticulous, using a new pad for every mark, and immediately covering them up with bandages. Dorian lay still, enjoying the attention of her sure hands, though not so much the sting of the anti-septic – this wasn’t the kind of pain he was into.

When she was done, Irene patted a patch of unblemished skin on his shoulder.

“Do you need some rest, or would you prefer to leave?”

Dorian rolled onto his side to look up at her. “I do not _prefer_ to leave, but I’m afraid I have another engagement I really can’t miss – Mr. Moriarty gets so annoyed when he is kept waiting, as I’m sure you know.” 

Irene raised an eyebrow. “Moriarty, hm? Well, it would be a shame to be late for that meeting, indeed.” She stood up. “I’ll show you out.”

She waited patiently as Dorian put on his clothes again, then accompanied him to the door.

“Thank you for this lovely afternoon, Mr Gray,” she said with a smile.

“I assure you,” Dorian replied as he bowed to place a kiss on the back on Irene’s hand, “the pleasure was all mine.”


End file.
